Why would I want to go to a beer festival ?

The thing about stereotypes is that they only become stereotypes because they fit the pre-conceived stereotype.

So H rang me yesterday and when blokes speak to each other we usually don’t spend any time at all with chit-chat, none of this “how are you, how is your family, how is the cat, how are your bowels” none of that bollacks, when blokes ring each other it usually goes something like,

“Now then”
“Fox at 8 ?”

If blokes were the only people in the world allowed to use mobile phones then all of the operators would go out of business within weeks, I have a mobile phone with some ridiculous number of minutes per month to use on phone calls, something like 500 minutes per month on phone calls, thats every month of every year, and if I don’t use them all up in one month they carry some of them forward to the following month, Jesus Christ, if I stopped paying for the bloody thing tomorrow I’d have enough free minutes to last me until I’m 127 years old, I normally use about two and a half minutes a month.

So H rings me and doesn’t spend any time with chit-chat, just “Have you picked a date for the bike ride yet”

Me : “no”
Him : “There was something else, oh yes, beer festival”
Me : “Beer festival ?”
Him : “Yeah, in Horsforth, want to go ?”
Me : “Me?”
Him : “Yeah”
Me : “Me, who doesn’t drink beer ?”
Him : “Yeah”
Me : “Why would I want to go to a beer festival, cram into a church hall with 500 other fat bearded blokes and fat bearded women and wander around drinking halves of beer made from straw and rhubarb ?”
Him : “It would be a good story for your blog”
Me : “Yeah, ok we’ll go”

See how this blog affects my life now ?

Me, who wouldn’t normally dream of going to a beer festival, me who gets incredibly ill every time I try and drink alcohol, me who hates the thought of being crammed into a church hall with 500 blokes who all accurately, exactly, resemble the stereotypical beer festival clientele, me who will probably make himself ill just at the smell of the beer, me, the only one in the church hall who thinks he’s wasted his entrance fee coming into this stupid beer festival, me, can be tempted to go and observe what goes on at a stupid beer festival, just for something to write about.

And it gets worse, all my friends now read this every day, we’ve even made a concerted effort to re-contact lots of lads from our old school so that forty years later we can all be on Facebook and meet each other for beers in pubs – and that means that I can’t write about the buggers any more.

Take David England for instance, we managed to trace him only to find that he doesn’t want to speak to us any more and I suspect its because I inadvertently wrote on Facebook “Oh bugger, I hope he never reads about himself on my blog” and he probably did and thats probably why he won’t answer anyone’s messages now.

Still, five days worth of beard growth, a huge baggy jumper made of horse hair and a pair of Andy Graham’s beige cord pants (thank god Andy Graham doesn’t mind me taking the piss), yeah, could be fun at the beer festival…


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